


The Day I Died

by Soule



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alcohol, Animal Abuse, Dismemberment, Eye Trauma, Gore, Sexual Undertones, extreme violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9237026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soule/pseuds/Soule
Summary: A canonical first-person account of Anarchaia's death. A part of the "Adventures of Grimory and Anarchaia" storyline.





	

                It was a typical night at the tavern. Loud. Annoying. Tiresome. I set down a round of mead in heavy glass steins, promptly wiping the condensation from my hands and onto my apron. The men I served them to made a comment about my eyes and hair; their voices dripped with the typical suggestion I’d come to expect from drunkards. I smiled and thanked them – the only reaction I found to be the least confrontational. I’d turned to leave when I heard “I’d love to adorn those pretty white eyelashes with something else white.” My nails dug into my palm as I walked away, cacophonous laughter in my wake. Pigs.

                I didn’t need that job, but I couldn’t stand to be at home for too long. My parents constantly argued. I’d read all the books I had at least thrice over. I’d mastered every piano composition I owned. The tavern was the closest business in Duskwood. Or at least the closest one I knew of. And to hell if I was going to be some farmhand. I don’t like horses. Huge. Muscular. Terrifying. No thanks.

                I hung up my apron. If that table wanted another round of drinks, they’d have to ask the barkeep. I cared for their tip as much as I cared for more interaction with them. I didn’t. I waved goodbye to Milnessa, the only other server I’d bothered to get to know. We weren’t anything more than acquaintances, though.

                I pulled my cloak about my shoulders and head and used what little fire magic I knew at the time to make a small light in my palm. I was often told that because of my rare skin condition I was destined for greatness in the realm of magic, but I’m not a superstitious person. Granted I was learning faster than most people my age, but I remain convinced that it was due to my diligence and love for study. My parents never gave me their opinions but they seemed to have some sort of belief of luck since they decided to give me my Great-Grandmother’s name – an incredibly talented fire mage. I’ve never met her myself but I’ve heard tell of her being able to melt rock and stone as if she were a Shaman.

                The rustle of leaves amongst the dark trees caught my attention. I continued on anyway, more concerned with getting home than stopping and leaving myself vulnerable. Talk had been buzzing about, telling of a bloodthirsty rogue – Morohest Flayblade – and his equally bloodthirsty lackeys hitting the larger houses in the area – killing livestock, pets, and sometimes residents, all in the name of profit. I knew this not only because I worked in a fairly busy tavern, but because the previous night they’d killed my cat. Spook. Named so for his ghostly white hair and blue eyes – much like mine. Slit his throat. Cut out his eyes. Strung him up in my doorway for me to find after work, a note around his neck. _Leave the combination under the mat._ Really crude handwriting. The ink faded in places where whomever wrote it clearly didn’t bother to refill. I remember it so clearly because there wasn’t a drop of blood on it.

                My parents were obviously distraught over the fact that someone was after our cache in the cellar, beneath the wine casks. Even as young as I was, a simple pick-proof enchantment was well below my abilities at the time and Flayblade must have figured that out. We did our best not to wave our money around and to this day I don’t know how he found out.

                Despite my crying and hysterics, Mother and Father insisted that Spook was “just a cat” and they’d get me another. In retrospect my reaction was warranted but my demands were irrational. But I had a bad, bad feeling. The kind of feeling you get deep in your stomach when you do something you know you aren’t supposed to do. The kind of feeling that comes with lying awake at night.

                The rest of the way home was fairly quiet. Crickets. Typical nighttime noises. I only worked after the sun had set since its light was bad for my skin – I obviously don’t have to worry about that now. A cool breeze of relief washed over me when I came home to see both my parents in the living room – my mother crocheting as normal and my father looking over old Gnomish mechanics manuals. They understood when I told them I was tired and just wanted to sleep.

                I remember the last time my head comfortably nestled into a pillow. It was so cool and comfortable. I closed my eyes and visions of Spook filled my mind – happy memories muddled with the horrific images of his death. Even despite all that I still somehow slept.

                When I woke the next morning was when the nightmare really began. My father was yelling – screaming in a way I’d never heard him scream. Throwing open doors. Stomping up the stairs. Yelling my name. I could hear the tears in his voice.

                “Ana!!”

                I sat up quickly, jumping out of bed and asking him what was wrong…but I think I knew.

                “They killed her! They killed Aralisse!” He grabbed me by my shoulders, forcing me back to sit on the bed. His tears soaked my shoulder and I blinked, silent and stunned, embracing my father as he sobbed. “They killed your mother…”

                My own tears were already streaming down my face. I don’t remember when I started crying. “Are you sure she’s dead?” was all I managed to choke out. I must have sounded strange because he pushed me back to look at my face.

                “ _They slit her throat! While we slept!_ ”

                I couldn’t breathe. How? How could they? My father slept right beside her every night. I broke down, screaming and clawing at Father’s chest. Curses. Obscenities. Anything I could think of. Screaming for Spook. Screaming for Mother. Screaming to wake up. For it all to be a dream.

                I couldn’t watch Father bury Mother beneath the magnolias in the garden. I feel badly about not being there, now. Not being there for him. Not being the family he needed. It tears me apart to think about. I’m a terrible daughter.

                We left the combination under the mat that night.

                I lay awake in bed, trembling in fear. I knew they were in the house – in the cellar. I didn’t sleep. Only sat there until the morning sun could be seen behind my thick curtains. I’d never stepped out of my room as quietly as I did.

                “Did they take it?” I asked Father softly.

                He shook his head and said “I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything.”

                We both crept down the cellar stairs. I stopped at the bend and looked down into the dimness as Father lifted up the rug. He bent down and picked something up. I didn’t know then but it was a piece of paper.

                “What is it?” I pressed, again holding my breath.

                “Ana.” His voice was so quiet I could barely understand him. “I need you to go upstairs. Go outside.”

                “What? Why?”

                The words had barely come out of my mouth when multiple vortexes of swirling smoke filled the cellar. Figures appeared from the shadows of the clouds. There was this strange gurgling noise and I covered my face, coughing out the smoke.

                The dust settled and what I saw in the dim light of my basement made me recoil in horror. An auburn-haired man stood crouched behind my father, a blade no longer than my forearm skewered through Father’s chest. Father gurgled again, blood pouring from his lips. That sound haunts me still. When I do manage to sleep it’s all I hear.

                Morohest pushed Father off his shortsword with a foot.

                He staggered forward a few paces and collapsed, gurgling no more.

                “ _WHY?”_ I screamed. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me off the floor. I didn’t bother to look back. “ _WE GAVE YOU WHAT YOU ASKED! WHY?!”_

The rogue, surrounded by his men – a huge, red Orc and two humanoid figures with covered faces – crouched down again to pick up the piece of paper my father’d been holding. “Marrowbreath, bring her here.” His voice was so gravelly it was almost difficult to tell he had an accent.

                The furry creature holding me gave an eager grunt and obeyed.

                I was crying so violently that my voice had left. My vocal chords strained from the damage I’d done in my lamenting and all I could do was screech and squeak.

                Morohest’s bright green eyes pierced through me from behind a nasty scar over his brow and I kicked at him feebly, calling him any name I could muster. He grabbed my food with a strength I didn’t know a hand made only of bone could produce and showed me the paper, pinched gingerly between a thumb and forefinger. _Not enough._

                _“WHY?”_ I screamed again, trying to kick my way out of his grasp. A hand covered in coarse fur covered my mouth.

                “Annoying screaming hurt ears.” It was more bestial than anything. Low and growly. Too short to be a Worgen, though.

                Morohest flicked the paper into the darkness of the cellar and flicked his tongue against his lower lip. “A ghost child.” He pulled at a lock of my hair. “Such a rarity. About to become rarer.”

                I made a noise into the weathered animal pads over my mouth when he ripped the hair from my scalp. More tears stung my eyes at the pain. I shook my head, trying to plead with them. _I’ll do anything_ I tried to say, but the creature holding me refused to let me speak.

                “What’re we doing with her?” said the Orc, his big arms folded over his chest.

                “We should leave her alive,” said one of the masked figures. “This all oughtta fuck ‘er up some, yeah?” He gestured to my father on the floor, the pool of blood around him growing. I couldn’t bring myself to look for more than a moment.

                Flayblade seemed to mull this over, tapping his pale chin with fingertips. “We can fuck ‘er up more. Teach ‘er a lesson for ignoring the first request.”

                That decision hadn’t even been up to me. I was sure he was just reaching for reasons.

                He clicked his short fingernails on his blade before he brought it to my face.

                “We could do what we always do to the pretty ones we catch.” The second masked figure sounded pretty similar to the other and if they hadn’t been on opposite sides of the room I’d have guessed it was the same person.

                “You mates can do whatever you want with ‘er once I’m done.”

                I was breathing so quickly through my nose I thought I may pass out. The tip was inching toward my eye and I tried my damnedest to pull away from it.

                “Eat her,” growled the man-thing behind me and something warm and slimy slithered between my neck and shoulder.

                “Yeah, sure.”

                The next thing I remember is my skull being pushed back and half my vision disappearing into redness and, eventually, darkness. It happened so quickly. Searing pain exploded from my eye socket. I didn’t even register in my mind what had happened until Flayblade held up my own, right eye. He smiled a disgusting, sadistic grin. “Such pretty eyes you have, girlie.”

                I screamed again with a newfound voice I thought I’d lost.

                Something flashed in his eyes and he motioned for the monster holding me to remove his hand.

                The Orc in back flinched as my shrieks echoed through the cellar again and I clamped my eyes shut. The agony was unbearable. Scorching and stabbing. Damp.

                Something hot and wet was plunged into my open throat. I choked and attempted to cough it out, but Flayblade’s thick fingers pushed the thing deeper. I felt myself beginning to heave and the hand returned over my lips along with a dark chuckle in my ear. “Swallow,” growled the entity behind me.

                I kicked and begged for air. Whatever was in my throat eventually passed through, however, and I breathed in deeply. The taste of metal filled my mouth. I began to heave again when I realized what I’d just been forced to ingest. The beast holding me dropped me hard on my hands and knees. I vomited, praying my eyeball would come up. When it didn’t I dropped completely to the floor and sobbed. I shook violently, begging them to stop. Begging them to leave me be. After moments, adrenaline eventually, finally surged through my body and reduced the pain in my now empty socket to a dull, throbbing ache.

                “Please,” I choked. Looking back I wish I hadn’t been so pathetic. I wish I’d spat in their ugly faces. Especially knowing now what they were going to do.

                A gnoll bent over me, fangs dripping with slaver. “Eat now?”

                “No,” hissed Flayblade. “You can’t possibly eat meat that hasn’t been butchered yet.”

                I stared up at them in horror. “No...” My voice was so soft I’m sure they didn’t hear me. I scrambled back but Marrowbreath was quick to pin me, wrists to the floorboards. I kicked and Flayblade responded with a boot to my ribs.

                “Kothak.”

                The Orc stepped forward and pulled the biggest cleaver I’ve ever seen from his belt. “How convenient,” he mused.

                My left arm was the first to go. I remember the spray of blood more than the pain. I screamed as much as I could while hyperventilating quick, shallow breaths.

                “Why?” I somehow managed to gasp, struggling to remain conscious.

                They laughed at me.

                I didn’t know evil existed in the world until that day. I knew about the disgusting men at the tavern. I knew about the dysfunction of my parents’ marriage. I knew bad things happened. But what they did to me…to my parents. To Spook. To anyone else they slaughtered. _That_ was evil.

                The world spun around me. I no longer felt any pain after my leg was removed. Or the other. Or when the skin of my forehead was being sliced into. Just bone-chilling iciness. My final screams of anguish faded into nothingness along with the rest of my hearing.

                The last thing I recall is a flash of violet light.

                And I was sure it was Heaven.


End file.
